


Under

by sciencefictioness



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Gore, Dom Jaskier | Dandelion, Dom and Sub As Dynamics, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kneeling, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Medical Procedures, Needles, Pining, Sub Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Your Standard Baby Witcher Tags, dom/sub dynamics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:53:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23865565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sciencefictioness/pseuds/sciencefictioness
Summary: Geralt has gone to knees in front of Jaskier, arms held behind him and chin raised high.  He’s sitting on his heels, shoulders back.  His posture is better than any submissive Jaskier has ever seen; like he has been waiting a long, long time.Like it is all that he needs.“Geralt,” Jaskier starts, but there are no more words in him right then.Geralt’s eyes are still pitch black, and he is bleeding sluggishly from a dozen different wounds, whining low at the sound of his name.  The potions help him in a fight, but they’re hard on his body, and he’s taken far too many of them if his eyes haven’t shifted back yet.  He tilts his head to the side, exposing the column of his throat, and something sings through Jaskier that he cannot even begin to quell.  Geralt is on his knees.Geralt is on his knees for Jaskier.“Oh, darling,” Jaskier says, reaching down to cup his cheek, watching the way his head lolls into the touch.  His breathing starts to even out as Jaskier brushes the hair back from his face with his other hand, running gentle fingers over his brow.  “You’ve been keeping secrets.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 197
Kudos: 1116





	1. Drop

**Author's Note:**

> Lee said 'geraskier d/s au, that's the tweet' and here we are!

It’s cold enough that the air fogs in front of him with every breath he takes. His clothes are warm in theory, but he’s definitely not suited to the climate this far north. He’s got full pockets, though, and a bottle of wine and a warm room waiting for him back at the inn. No company yet, but the night is young. There’s no one particularly striking at the tavern, or at least no one both striking  _ and  _ available.

It has been a long time, but not long enough that Jaskier is willing to settle for one or the other. There  _ is  _ a fairly lovely fellow sitting at the bar with pretty blonde hair and bright eyes who’s been watching Jaskier perform with blatant interest, but he also has a brown leather collar on with enormous sapphires embedded along its length and Jaskier isn’t sure he’s worth the trouble. The dominant who collared him is wealthy, and a show off, and Jaskier doesn’t feel like fleeing another township in the middle of the night with furious guards on his heels.

Not in this fucking weather, at the very least.

He’s stumbling around from the back of the tavern and knotting the ties on his breeches when he sees her, walking slowly towards him down the road. It’s been a while since he's laid eyes on her, but she’s gorgeous as always, if a little rough around the edges at the moment and very distinctly missing her rider. 

“Roach?” Jaskier says, reaching out as she stops in front of him and nuzzles into his chest. The white mark that stretches down her nose is filthy;  _ all  _ of her is filthy, in a way that Geralt would never usually allow. He pets gently down her neck and frowns. “Hello beautiful. Yes, I’ve missed you, too. It’s been months, where is your sour-faced friend? I’m sure he’s around here somewhere.” 

There’s something dark matted in her mane, and smeared messily across her fur. Jaskier touches it hesitantly, fingers coming back wet with what is probably blood, except that there is quite a lot of it and that’s more than a little troubling.

“Oh, that’s... not great, then, is it? Where has your witcher gone, sweetheart? Has he already been run out of—  _ oof.” _

Jaskier is suddenly struggling under the weight of said witcher, staggering and almost letting them both tumble to the ground. Geralt is heavy, and he’s all but collapsed on top of Jaskier, smelling worse than Roach by miles. Jaskier can’t tell if it’s mud or gore all over him, and even if he could, he wouldn’t know who or what it belonged to— Geralt, or something he’d been hunting. 

Something that had been hunting him.

Jaskier hopes it isn’t his own. There is enough of it to make his stomach twist.

“Fancy meeting you here! You’ve certainly looked better. Are those twigs in your hair?” 

There are, in fact, twigs in his hair, along with not a few leaves and some dried moss, Jaskier thinks. Geralt is gaunt, irises and sclera solid black like Jaskier has only seen a few times before when he’s taken too many potions before a fight. He sags against Jaskier, blinking as though it’s hard to keep his eyes open, clutching at him with clumsy fingers.

“Jaskier,” he says. It sounds like it hurts to get the word out. Geralt doesn’t elaborate further. He’s breathing hard, and swallowing around nothing, his hands shaky.

“That’s me, yes,” Jaskier says, patting at Geralt to look for injuries. There are some vicious claw marks going all the way through his leathers on his chest, deep enough that Geralt hisses and arches away when he touches them. More wounds on his stomach, on his back, on his throat. “Good goddess, what have you done to yourself? We need to get you to a doctor. Or a mage. A seamstress, at the very least.” 

Geralt shakes his head fervently, grasping at his clothes as he tucks his face into the curve of Jaskier’s shoulder.

“No, no… no mages. Please. You, you… please, Jaskier.”

Jaskier ignores the thrill that runs through him at Geralt’s voice, the way his instincts soar and preen. The way Geralt feels like he’s right where he needs to be, nestled into his throat and pleading, trusting Jaskier to have him. It’s been a long time since he got to put someone under, or take care of them the way he likes, and listening to Geralt beg for something is lighting up all the wrong places inside him. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slow.

Geralt is as far from a submissive as someone gets, and even if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t want  _ Jaskier.  _

Jaskier runs his fingers over what must be a bite mark on Geralt’s shoulder, though he doesn’t want to think too hard about what put it there, and winces in sympathy. 

“Something’s  _ gnawed on you,  _ Geralt! __ Fuck’s sake. Come on, let’s get you to my room and try and see what’s left of you.” Geralt grunts, which is permission enough, and as much answer as Jaskier ever expects out of him.

It is easier said than done to maneuver two hundred pounds or so of bloody, potion-drunk witcher down the road without breaking both of them and his lute besides, Roach following dutifully along after and snuffling at them occasionally. Geralt has an arm slung around Jaskier’s shoulders and keeps himself mostly upright, but he’s leaning hard enough against Jaskier that he almost loses his footing a few times before they make it to the inn. He’s letting out rough exhales with every jostling step, like it hurts but he’s biting back the sound.

Geralt is shaking, and his skin is cold enough to make Jaskier nervous— he isn’t fragile, Jaskier knows he isn’t, but he’s never seen him hurt this badly before without a mage handy to fix him up again. They leave Roach outside; she’s smart, and well trained. She won’t wander far, and there is a trough full of water nearby.

“Should have thrown you into a wheelbarrow, I suppose. Would have been a bit easier. Come on, it’s just a little farther.”

Jaskier takes a moment to thank all the gods that he’s staying on the first floor, as well as shooting the innkeeper a strained smile and asking if he could please have a tub and some hot water brought to his room, along with any stray medical supplies they might have lying around. The man gives Jaskier a skeptical look— having a very large, very bloody, very out of it witcher dragged into his establishment in the middle of the night is probably not ideal for him, but Jaskier has done well lately, and he clearly isn’t bothered enough to refuse more coin.

Jaskier and Geralt make it to his room eventually, door left open for the innkeeper and his son to drag an oversized wooden tub in and begin filling it with steaming buckets of water. 

“Home sweet home, here we are!” Jaskier sing-songs, setting his lute up in the nearest chair as carefully as he can with Geralt still all but collapsed on top of him. “Alright, down you go, there’s a good boy.”

He staggers over to the bed and eases Geralt down on it, eyes roving over him to try and figure out where the worst of his injuries are before giving up entirely and resigning himself to coaxing Geralt out of his clothes for a better look.

It isn’t that Jaskier doesn’t want Geralt out of his clothes— it’s a glorious sight, really, even if he’s never really gotten to appreciate it to the extent he’d like, but he knows from experience it will be less pleasant with Geralt bleeding all over the place and glaring at him. His glare is conspicuously absent right now, which is less welcome than Jaskier would have guessed. Geralt’s eyes are still solid black, blinking up at Jaskier like he is waiting for something. 

“Well you’ve certainly made a mess of yourself, haven’t you?” Geralt frowns in a way that is chastised and startlingly canine, like a dog being scolded by their owner. Jaskier tugs at Geralt’s coat and sighs. “Get this off, then.” He doesn’t argue, which is both good and worrying, all things considered.

Jaskier can’t fixate on it right then. He crosses the room, digging for his coin purse and dropping a few into the innkeeper’s waiting palm.

“If there’s anything left of dinner in the kitchen,” he says, letting another couple of silvers fall, “we’d be most obliged, my dear friend.” He winks, and the innkeeper sighs and nods before leaving the room, his son following after him with an armful of empty wooden buckets.

Jaskier closes the door behind them, pausing beside Geralt, who’s managed to finally wrestle off his coat. He’s still in the rest of his clothes, though; Jaskier stands in front of him, plucking a few stray leaves out of his hair. Geralt lets him, brows raised in something that looks less like surprise, and more like expectation. There is no annoyance in his expression; no anger, no disgust.

He’s not shaking so badly anymore, but there are still shivers running through him now and then. Jaskier lays a palm on his cheek without thinking, unable to quell the urge to comfort him somehow.

Geralt is  _ not  _ a submissive and Jaskier is  _ not  _ his dominant but his instincts haven’t registered all that. There is simply someone Jaskier cares about so much it aches sometimes, wounded and asking for his help, and everything in Jaskier is alight with the need to put him under and make the whole world disappear for a while. 

Except witchers don’t go  _ under,  _ certainly not  _ Geralt,  _ and Jaskier doesn’t know how to explain that to the part of him that is desperate to take control.

“Let’s get the rest of it off, too. Need to see you if I’m going to help you, yeah?” Geralt’s eyes flutter closed, and he nods, and something in Jaskier twists like a knife. “Awfully agreeable this evening, not sure if that’s a relief or somewhat terrifying. Don’t drop dead on me, Geralt, it’s been  _ such  _ a pleasant night so far.”

He tells himself he’s imagining the way Geralt leans into his palm, and pulls away before he has a chance to make things even more awkward between them. Jaskier goes to inspect the supplies the innkeeper laid out on the table in his room— enough gauze and wrappings and ointment to dress a dozen wounds, but maybe not enough for all of Geralt. He is a lot of man, with a lot of cuts, and his healing seems to be slow at best right now. 

There is also a set of needles and thread for stitching, which Jaskier doesn’t like looking at, and hopes he won’t need to use. Geralt has gotten to his feet to tug off the rest of his clothes, and Jaskier takes a moment to sit on the bed and kick off his shoes, shrugging his coat off and untying the belts on his tunic. 

Then he freezes, and can’t do anything but stare, lips parted and eyes wide.

Geralt is as naked as the day he was born, and he has gone to knees in front of Jaskier, arms held behind him and chin raised high. He’s sitting on his heels, shoulders back, knees slightly apart. His posture is better than any submissive Jaskier has ever seen; like he has been waiting a long, long time.

Like it is all that he needs.

“Geralt,” Jaskier starts, but there are no more words in him right then. 

Geralt’s eyes are still pitch black, and he is bleeding sluggishly from a dozen different wounds, whining low at the sound of his name. The potions help him in a fight, but they’re hard on his body, and he’s taken far too many of them if his eyes haven’t shifted back yet. He tilts his head to the side, exposing the column of his throat, and something sings through Jaskier that he cannot even begin to quell. Geralt is on his  _ knees. _

Geralt is on his knees for  _ Jaskier. _

It is something he has wanted, and felt a fool for wanting, for so long that he cannot remember when it began.

“Oh,  _ darling,”  _ Jaskier says, reaching down to cup his cheek, watching the way his head lolls into the touch. His breathing starts to even out as Jaskier brushes the hair back from his face with his other hand, running gentle fingers over his brow. “You’ve been keeping secrets.”

Geralt whines again, like that hurts, and Jaskier shushes him.

“Shhhh, no, it’s alright. Nobody else’s business, is it? You’re just fine.” Jaskier keeps petting through his hair, tugging out the stray leaves and pulling the leather tie out. 

Things fall into place in the background of his thoughts as he threads his fingers through Geralt’s hair— the way he argues, and snarks, but always does what Jaskier asks in the end. How he keeps everyone at arm’s length, but seems so desperate for connection. Geralt and his endless sighing, yet even without coin, he drags himself out into the wilderness to slay beasts for a host of ungrateful townsfolk or condescending nobles. Terrified to let himself be seen for what he is, because how could a witcher possibly be a submissive? 

Jaskier thinks about the little he knows of Kaer Morhen, and the Trials they put witchers through. Wonders how hard they tried to beat this out of him— every soft instinct, every inborn need. The dogged urge to fall to his knees, and bare his throat for someone he trusts. 

It must have been as brutal as everything else they put him through for it to have taken so well, for so long.

Gods, he just wants to be  _ good  _ for someone. 

The tension is slipping out of his muscles now, and he’s pressing harder into Jaskier’s palm. Jaskier lazily untangles his hair, and listens to Geralt sigh contentedly.

“Oh sweetheart, how long has it been since someone took care of you?” Jaskier takes the jealousy that flares in him at the question and tucks it away. It’s not going to do either of them any good; not now, not ever.

Submissives need to be put under from time to time, or they’ll go into a drop on their own— get anxious, and depressed, ready to shake out of their own skin. Jaskier has seen subs in drop, crying and retching and falling apart, or staring out into nothing for hours or even days at a time. Someone, somewhere, has been given this gift before; Geralt on his knees, drifting and obedient.

Except Geralt furrows his brows like he’s confused, and shakes his head a little, making a noise that is somewhere between a grunt and a whine.

“A few months? Longer? Last time you went to your witcher school, maybe?” 

Kaer Morhen is a burned out ruin, now, but witchers still gather there through harsh winters sometimes. If Geralt trusts anyone to put him down, it would probably be one of them. It’s been well over a year since he’s heard anything about Yennefer, and even at least two since there’s been any talk of the two of them together. The longer a sub goes without being dropped, the more careful their partner needs to be with them when they do finally go under. 

Jaskier just wants to know what to expect; how delicate of a hand this is going to require. 

How easy it will be to fuck it up and hurt Geralt by accident.

Geralt shakes his head again, breathing coming a little faster, the way it does when a submissive has fallen under and gets upset because they can’t find the right words. He swallows, lips parting around another helpless sound. Jaskier holds Geralt’s face in both his hands, rubbing his thumbs back and forth over his cheekbones.

“Don’t tell me it’s been  _ years?” _

Jaskier can’t even comprehend it. Geralt blinks up at him, the black of his eyes unfathomable as he tries to make his mouth work.

“Not… since the Grasses,” he finally mumbles out, slurred and soft.

It is instinct that keeps his thumbs moving over Geralt’s face, running over his lips, combing through his hair. Instinct, while the ground shifts underneath his feet and everything roils around him. Much of what he’s learned about witchers is decidedly secondhand and of questionable veracity, but everyone knows about the Trial of the Grasses. That it is dangerous.

That most witchers don’t survive it.

That they are young, and they break, and come back with slitted pupils and pale skin and bodies that don’t understand what it means to die. 

Jaskier doesn’t know how old Geralt is, but he does know it has been  _ decades  _ since he went through the Trial of the Grasses. He thinks about Kaer Morhen. Thinks about some witcher with his rough hand on the back of Geralt’s neck. Thinks about how small he would have been, going to his knees,  _ easy, Geralt, easy. _

_ One last time, boy. _

_ This has to stop. _

Jaskier breathes out the fire in his lungs, and lets the fury seep from his hands, and decides not to think of it anymore.

Witchers still feel pain, still feel cold, still feel hunger; they are simply better at bearing it. Better at holding a sword, and pretending they aren’t in agony.

Better at ignoring the need to fall to their knees, ringing like steel in their ears until it is nothing but an echo.

Geralt has been shaking apart for so long that it is all he knows, and now he is here at Jaskier’s feet.

“Oh, love. I am so sorry. I have you, now. Let’s clean you up a little and get you in the bath.”

Geralt holds himself still as Jaskier uses a wet cloth to scrub the worst of the filth away, at least where he dares to scrub at all. He rinses the cloth again and again, careful around Geralt’s injuries, making soothing noises when he flinches. There is only so much Jaskier can do with a rag and a bucket of water, though when he’s finished, getting Geralt into the tub is easy.

_ Stand up for me darling, into the bath,  _ and Geralt stumbles over like a newborn foal and climbs into the water. He lets his head fall forward, chin on his chest as Jaskier pours water slowly over his head and washes the grime from his hair. Then he eases his fingers under Geralt’s chin and coaxes his face up— the black is finally gone from his eyes, leaving them vivid gold and slitted once again.

“There you are,” Jaskier says, running his knuckles over Geralt’s jaw. “Perfect.”

Geralt smiles almost drunkenly, and it hits Jaskier like a blow to the stomach— there is no moving past this unscathed. 

One way or another this is going to hurt them, him and Geralt both.

The only difference is that Jaskier won’t regret it in the morning.

Geralt is the picture of docility as Jaskier washes him, mentally cataloguing the more serious injuries. The bite on his shoulder is particularly nasty, and some of the claw marks on his chest and back are deep enough to be troubling. Jaskier is soaked by the time he’s finished— Geralt is clingy, head laid against Jaskier’s chest with his eyes lidded and downcast.

A knock comes in the midst of things, and Jaskier opens the door just enough to accept a tray with a bowl of some sort of stew and a small loaf of bread, along with a mug of ale. He blocks the innkeeper’s view of the room as best he can, thanking him quickly before shutting the door in his face. Jaskier doesn’t know if Geralt is hungry, but some food would probably do him good.

Then he thinks about feeding him by hand and has to stop and steady his breathing.

The rest of the bath goes quickly— praise comes easy to Jaskier. 

Especially, Jaskier finds, when it is Geralt he is praising. Geralt leans into him and lets Jaskier scratch dried blood off his skin, shushing him even though he hasn’t said a thing,  _ just like that, there you go, that’s the way. _

Geralt is so far under when they are done that he is barely awake, drugged and drifting in a haze. Jaskier touches his face and calls his name, but it takes a few tries before he meets his eyes.

“Time to get out and let me wrap up those cuts. Do you think you can stand?”

He nods, but considering the state he is in, Geralt would probably nod no matter what Jaskier asked him to do. Jaskier lets Geralt loop an arm around his shoulder again, water dripping over already wet clothes as he helps him out of the tub. 

Geralt tries to go to his knees right there on the wet floor beside the bathtub, but Jaskier stops him, guiding him over to the bed and setting down a pillow down first. If he tries to put Geralt anywhere but on his knees he’s likely to come out of his daze a little, and Jaskier doesn’t want that.

He’d tended Geralt’s wounds before when he wasn’t under, and it was much less pleasant than this.

Geralt drops to his knees onto the pillow like he is made of stone, leaning forward and wrapping his hands around the back of his neck. Jaskier gently pries his hands away, squeezing Geralt’s nape himself, watching him go liquid.

“I’ve got you, darling. Sit back up for me.”

Jaskier dries him off first then takes his time rubbing ointment onto the worst of Geralt’s injuries, smearing it over the bite in his shoulder first, then the more pronounced of his claw marks. Geralt watches him with dilated eyes, swaying now and then like it’s hard to stay upright. In the end it is easier to wrap all of his chest and shoulder in bandages, so that is what Jaskier does, making sure it is snug enough to last the night.

He sits on the bed when he’s finished, Geralt nuzzling into his thigh, looking up at Jaskier through his lashes. Jaskier takes a moment to stare, running his fingers through Geralt’s damp hair, committing the sight to memory as best he can— Geralt on his knees, bathed and tended and pliant. Geralt leaning into Jaskier’s touch like a pleased cat. 

Geralt nuzzling higher, rubbing his cheek against Jaskier through his breeches, face flushing the faintest pink. He noses at him, whining as though he doesn’t understand why he can’t get to what he wants.

Heat swells through Jaskier in a wave, and it’s hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to speak.

“Oh, gorgeous,” he says, laying a palm over Geralt’s face again, “you don’t need to do that.” Geralt pulls Jaskier’s thumb into his mouth and starts to suck. 

It is the most natural thing in the world; a submissive on their knees, down deep and very politely asking for what they need from the dominant taking care of them. Jaskier wants it more than almost anything, but not enough that he is willing to throw everything away. There is a reason Geralt has not told him all this before now.

If he wanted Jaskier this way, he would have asked a long time ago. 

If he  _ wants  _ Jaskier, he can have him, but not tonight.

“You’ve already been so good for me, sweetheart. Let me get some food in you and get you into bed, okay?”

Geralt whines, and nods, and obeys.

Feeding him is a mistake.

Jaskier gives him spoonfuls of stew. Offers him pieces of bread from his fingers, Geralt’s lips brushing his skin as he takes each bite. When the food is gone, it is not only Geralt who is drifting.

It has been a long time since Jaskier has taken care of a submissive, but it has never felt like this; bone deep satisfaction. A lazy satiation when he hasn’t even come. Geralt is fed, and bathed, and dropped so far he couldn’t come up if he tried. Jaskier did that.

Geralt will leave him in the morning, but right now, he belongs to Jaskier.

“Come on, precious. Let’s go to bed.”

Jaskier blows out the candles, pulls off his wet clothes and crawls under the blankets, holding the corner up to let Geralt follow. He nestles down into Jaskier’s chest, and Jaskier wraps him up tight, doing his best to make Geralt feel small and safe and surrounded.

He whispers in the dark, and hopes Geralt isn’t already sleeping.

“I know tomorrow, you’re going to wake up and want to run, and that’s fine, but do try and say goodbye, yeah? Please, Geralt.”

The thought of waking up to some dirty bathwater, Geralt’s blood all over the floor, and an empty bed is enough to make him feel sick. Geralt makes a soft whimpering sound, and Jaskier presses a kiss to his temple, and pets through his hair.

“Alright, darling, alright.”

It isn’t alright, and it won’t be, but Geralt was bleeding and alone and Jaskier was there to catch him, and that will have to be enough.

-

Geralt is dressed when Jaskier wakes, sitting on the edge of the bed like a statue and staring at the wall.

“I’m… sorry,” he bites out as soon as Jaskier blinks his eyes open, hands gripping his thighs and back ramrod straight.

Jaskier sits up, rubbing at his face and fighting down a sigh.

“Geralt, there is nothing to apologize for. You were hurt, and I was here, and I don’t mind looking after you.”

Geralt flexes his jaw hard enough that Jaskier’s aches in sympathy.

“All the same,” he growls, still staring off at nothing. “I’m sorry.”

Jaskier reaches out to touch him.

Geralt flinches, and he drops his hand again.

“I would take care of you even if you weren’t half-dead and stinking like swamp water, you know. I would prefer it, actually. I gather you aren’t keen on people knowing that you’re…” Jaskier trails off and waves his hand at Geralt, who looks at him long enough to glare. “Anyway! I’m not going to say a word, but it was no trial to… to give you what you needed. Anything you needed. If you hadn’t been quite so gone, anyway.”

Jaskier doesn’t spell it out, but Geralt knows what he means. 

_ It was a privilege to have you on your knees for me,  _ Jaskier thinks. He cannot say it.

Even if he could, Geralt can’t bear to hear it yet.

“I have to go,” Geralt says. Jaskier wants to believe it is the truth.

“Alright,” Jaskier sighs, rubbing at his hair. “Don’t hide from me, witcher. You know I’ll find you. You still owe me a song.”

The twitch at the corner of his mouth isn’t a smile, but it is more than Jaskier expects. Geralt waits there, frozen, like he is trying to figure out the answer to some complicated question.

Then Geralt lurches forward and tucks his face into Jaskier’s throat, one arm slung around his shoulders. Jaskier’s hand comes up automatically, fingers squeezing at Geralt’s nape. He feels Geralt shudder. Feels him relax.

Feels him sigh, and loosen, and ease.

“Thank you, Jaskier,” he breathes. Jaskier nods, and squeezes tighter.

“Any time. I mean that, Geralt. I have you, alright? Anything you need.”

Geralt nods again, and then he’s gone, as Jaskier had known he would be. He flops back down against the pillows and closes his eyes. 

If Geralt hasn’t found him come spring, he will find Geralt instead. The blankets still smell like ointment, and witcher. 

Jaskier buries his face in them, and breathes.


	2. Instinctive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have not had a chance to answer all your comments yet while I work on writing commissions and other things but I want you to know that I cherish every one of them and they mean a lot to me and really help motivate me! Thank you so much ;;

It is all he has ever known. All he has been allowed to know.

One only kneels if they are ready to die, and even then, not without a fight. Geralt is young, and alone, and they bring him to Kaer Morhen and put a weapon in his hand. It is heavy, and hard to hold. 

He cannot write his name, but he can swing a sword. He can read the signs, and that is all he needs. Quen, first, but the rest follow. Geralt traces them in the dirt long before he forms them with his fingers. It doesn’t feel like magic. 

It is just more fighting. Another muscle to flex, and hone. 

Another thing to hurt him, when he does it wrong. Vesimir finds him kneeling in hidden corners of the keep, bloody and bruised with his hands wrapped around the back of his neck. Chest heaving, his eyes shut tight. Geralt has forgotten what it is to be whole. He is always wounded. He is always sore. 

_ On your feet, little one. Witchers don’t kneel. _

Everything is loud and bright and sometimes, he can’t breathe.

They press a hilt into his palm, and he grabs it, and stands.

-

He takes a fever one winter, just before the most brutal of his Trials. He sweats until his hair is dripping with it, body heating up so fast he starts seizing. His head is full of cotton, and it is hard to stay awake. Everything he’s worked for all these years was in vain, swallowed up by the cold until it all means less than nothing. He sobs, and coughs, and shakes.

One of the older witchers is there, guiding him onto his knees on the floor, a hand on the back of his neck.

_ Easy, Geralt, easy.  _

He squeezes, and something in Geralt loosens, and breaks. It is easy to get enough air, now, but only under the press of a strong hand. Only with his face against the stone, a broad palm sliding up and down his back,  _ you’re going to be just fine.  _

The volume of the whole world is turned down. There is nothing but his heartbeat, and the sound of his breathing. Geralt is floating, and everything his miles away; the ache in his bones, the way his head spins. Someone is praying to Melitele, or maybe he is dreaming. Geralt has never been this close to dying.

It is the safest he has ever felt.

It is the first winter he has ever seen this witcher in the keep. When he leaves the following spring, Geralt will never see him again. He doesn’t remember his name.

Geralt remembers the sound of his voice as he coaxed him through fever dreams night after night, wiping the sweat from his face with a wet cloth, letting him kneel when he couldn’t stop crying. Geralt remembers the feel of the witcher’s hands in his hair.

The fever breaks, and lucidity rolls in slow, like a spark that doesn’t want to catch fire. 

There is a moment towards the end when he is curled into himself in bed, calloused fingers holding back of his neck in a firm grip, and Geralt wishes it would linger. That the fever would flare one last time so he could drop under again.

It is a peace he has never known, to be pressed into something small and quiet. Where all he needs to do is breathe. 

Where all he needs to do is  _ be. _

Then it is gone, and the witcher is gone.

With spring, the Grasses loom.

-

Geralt can count on one hand the number of people he’s knelt for; Vesemir when he first got to the keep and didn’t know better, the old witcher tugging him upright for the first time but not the last,  _ no more of that, boy. _

_ On your feet, always. _

Eskel, when they  _ should _ have known better. The witcher that helped him through his fever.

The last one comes after the Grasses. It is yet another witcher that Geralt does not remember by name— just fingers on his nape. A low voice that rumbles through him like thunder.

Later, Geralt will wonder if it is deliberate that he does not see them again. If Vesemir has kept them away, to keep Geralt from seeking things he should not.

Geralt knows about pain. Knows about hurt, and all the different ways it can shift, and mutate. He knows the agony of misstepping on the trail that runs around Kaer Morhen; felled trees and cracked stones run like an obstacle course, all of it just waiting for a young witcher to make a mistake so it could break them. He knows what it feels like to fall. Knows what it feels like to shatter. The way a sword bites into his flesh when he is too slow; how it is different from a knife, an axe, an arrow. 

How heavily a fist can land; again, and again, and again. The taste of poison, and how it eats him alive. The burn of magic from within and without. 

Geralt knows about agony— Geralt knows about  _ dying,  _ but it has never been anything like this. 

They tie him down, and put needles in his veins, and then Geralt burns alive. 

Then Geralt freezes.

He loses himself in the fever, and shakes so hard his wrists fracture where the rope binds him in place. There is blood pouring from his nose, and mouth, and he retches onto the floor and seizes again. 

No one prays to Melitele, now.

No one prays at all.

Geralt swims through blood, and breaks the surface with wide eyes that throb and sting and water. 

Even the faint candlelight in the laboratorium is bright enough to make him wince. He can make out a dozen different heartbeats and the noise of people breathing. The clink of glass against stone is so loud he recoils. Geralt can hear everything. Geralt can  _ see  _ everything. There is still so much poison in his veins that Geralt thinks he might be sick again.

They unbind him, his broken wrists grinding back into place; he can feel it in his teeth, and in the back of his jaw. They try to give him water, but he chokes and shoves it away. Just the air against his skin makes it crawl. 

Almost everyone else is dead. It is why the older witchers will not look them in the eyes before they have turned. They are only ghosts, waiting for the end. 

Then they live through the Grasses, and they are people, finally. Geralt doesn’t feel like a person

Geralt feels like screaming. 

The witchers nearby put their hands on him, trying to calm him down.  _ Easy, boy, easy,  _ but there is nothing easy about it. He thrashes out of their grip, running on unsteady legs that want to give out underneath him. Stumbling up the stairs, careening through the halls. Everyone is too close and every noise is deafening and his vision will not clear. There is no air, and he can’t stop shaking. He is taking up too much space. 

There is too much of him. There is not enough. 

This is how it feels to be a monster.

Geralt slams into someone as he runs blindly through the keep, reeling backwards and almost losing his footing. The tears come all at once, as though the impact knocked them free, Geralt lifting his trembling hands to cover his face. The witcher in front of him is a blur through his new eyes. Through his tears, through his fingers. They sigh, and reach for him, and then there are strong hands holding him steady.

“Come on, little wolf,” they say, squeezing the back of his neck, his whole body going liquid at the touch. “On your knees, one last time.”

Geralt goes down fast. Goes down hard.

Geralt goes to his knees and leans forward until his forehead is pressed against the floor, arms wrapped around his stomach like they might keep everything inside. They stay there for a while, some witcher with a deep voice and warm hands rubbing gently at his throat while Geralt drifts away. It is as far under as he’s ever been, the scant few times he’s been dropped at all.

When Geralt comes up again, he is still shaking inside. He tucks it all away and gets to his feet. It is alright if he is trembling, as long as no one sees.

He is a witcher, now. 

Witchers do not kneel.

-

Geralt grows into himself.

Geralt grows out of himself.

He heads out on the Path and rarely looks back. It is lonely, always. Sometimes that is easier to bear than others.

No one that he takes to bed suspects that he’d rather be at their feet. He doesn’t spend the night with submissives, or at least not those who want to be dropped. Geralt sees people on their knees often enough— in taverns, and brothels, and inns. Sees them collared, drifting under someone else’s hands. He is usually long past yearning for such things.

There is a flare of something mournful. Geralt tucks it all away.

Yennefer sees him for what he is, and what he wants, but she never says a word. She is too powerful for ignorance. They come together, and break apart, and come together again. She is not made for softness. She does not make things easy. If a person wants something badly enough, it is up to them to take it. Up to them to reach. Up to them to fight.

If Geralt wants to kneel, he will have to do it on his own. He cannot.

He does not. 

It is one of many stones that drown them. 

-

Then, there is Jaskier. It would be so easy. Jaskier is loyal and his hands are rough from making music and he is always close when Geralt needs him. When he needs someone other than himself. When he needs not to be alone. Jaskier is strong. Jaskier is beautiful.

Geralt twists himself into knots trying to please him. Twists himself further trying to look like he isn’t living for every moment. The casual brush of Jaskier’s knuckles, his fingers sliding endlessly over the strings of his lute. He sings, and something inside Geralt sings back.

Sometimes they are close, and Geralt is tired; wounded. Bruised, and sore. His knees twitch, and try to give. Geralt thinks of Jaskier’s voice in his ear. Jaskier’s hands in his hair.

It would be so easy.

Geralt doesn’t deserve it.

Being around Jaskier is draining, but Geralt cannot resist the temptation to linger at his side. They have done so much together, Geralt pulled taut like a bowstring ready to snap. Sometimes they ride together in Roach’s saddle; running from trouble, or towards it.

Sometimes they share a bed in the dark. Geralt can see him perfectly. 

It is the only time he lets himself stare. 

-

There is blood. Too much poison. The pain is there but it’s a distant thing, something his body is used to tuning out. His potions are clinging and making him dizzy. The job is done, even if he hasn’t collected his coin yet. He falls out of his saddle and cannot manage to get up again. It has been so long since he slept; Geralt can feel every moment of it.

There is Jaskier, supporting Geralt’s weight and holding him steady. Jaskier, taking him someplace warm, tugging at his clothes. Gently, gently,  _ down you go, there’s a good boy.  _ Geralt is tired, and Jaskier is telling him to undress, telling him to relax. Jaskier’s voice is steady and sure and strong, The room smells like him, as though he’s been staying there for a while. It is warm, and quiet.

Geralt slips to his knees, arms easing behind his back of their own volition. He sits up straight, raises his chin. Jaskier is there, tugging his belts loose. There is so much familiarity between them; he feels comfortable getting undressed in front of Geralt. Comfortable telling him where to go, and what to do. 

It is the easiest thing in the world to drift under. There is Jaskier’s hand on his face,  _ oh, darling. _

_ You’ve been keeping secrets. _

Guilt rolls over him, but doesn’t have time to settle. Jaskier is threading fingers in his hair and washing him clean. Jaskier is tending all his wounds. Jaskier is letting Geralt kneel, head pillowed on his thigh, Jaskier’s palm curled around his neck. The pain of his wounds is a memory.

Everything is far away. There is only Jaskier. Warmth, and touch, and safety.

It is a peace he has only known briefly, and one he has never been permitted to linger within; being held gently. Allowed to become something small, and quiet. All he needs to do is breathe. 

All he needs to do is  _ be. _

Jaskier has him, and Geralt drifts down like a stone in a river. 

There isn’t only silence in him; Geralt wants… something, wants more, but he is starving and exhausted and it is a simple thing to tuck that need away. Jaskier feeds him by hand, and Geralt eats until there is nothing left, eager to take every last bite from his fingers. Afterwards, climbing into bed with Jaskier is a relief he can feel all the way in his bones. 

Jaskier holds him close. Geralt has never slept so well.

Jaskier kisses his hair, and asks him to stay, and then he is gone into dreamlessness.

-

Jaskier is there in bed with Geralt the next morning, as he has been a hundred times before, but never so intimately. Neither of them are dressed. His memories of the previous night are hazed through shades of gold— too good to be true, clear only in snatches, all of them Jaskier, Jaskier, Jaskier. The fight with the graveirs in the forest feels inconsequential now.

Everything that came after was so much more dangerous; Jaskier’s fingers in his mouth. Jaskier, holding him close.

It makes him think of Black Seagull, everything more unreal from his knees. Jaskier dropping him under, and keeping him there. 

_ Oh, love. I am so sorry. _

_ I have you, now. _

He has him still. Geralt cannot believe it. Then he opens his eyes, and Jaskier is wrapped protectively around him, keeping Geralt safe from himself. Jaskier’s hair is sticking up in every direction; Geralt wants to run his fingers through it.

Geralt wants a lot of things, none of them his to take.

He dresses, and waits. He doesn’t remember everything, but he remembers being asked to stay, and he can’t leave Jaskier sleeping. When he finally begins to stir the urge to run is so overwhelming that Geralt feels as though he’s about to jump into a fight, overtaken by a surge of adrenaline so powerful he almost reaches for his swords.

He almost goes back down to his knees, so that he will be there waiting when Jaskier opens his eyes. The instinct comes so naturally that it is terrifying. 

All his life he has been resisting, and now it feels impossible. Geralt tucks it away, and sits up straighter.

If Jaskier wanted him like that, he would have asked a long time ago.

If Jaskier  _ wants  _ him like that, then he is more of a fool than Geralt thought. There is a moment between sleep and wakefulness, and Jaskier stays there long enough that Geralt’s heart calms, finally.

_ It was no trial to give you what you needed,  _ Jaskier says, among other things that also sound like lies.

Jaskier  _ is _ a liar, but not when they’re alone.

_ Don’t hide from me, witcher.  _

As if Geralt could. Jaskier is close, and Geralt turns toward him like a flower seeking the sun.

_ You still owe me a song. _

He owes Jaskier more than that. It is a mistake to lean in and press his face into Jaskier’s throat, but one he regrets less than most, at least in that moment. Geralt breathes him in, and relaxes under the press of his fingers; Jaskier has him.

Then Geralt is gone, and must have himself, and that is so much worse.

-

The next few days are hard, as Geralt expects them to be; the Path is lonelier with the ghost of Jaskier’s hands in his hair. He collects his coin from the next township over, though they are loathe to part from it. Geralt has a dozen new scars, not all of them visible.

There is something cut into him, leaving Geralt emptier than before; then he thinks of Jaskier, and it aches. He manages to make it almost a week before circling back to the inn where Jaskier had been staying, but by the time Geralt gets there, he is gone. Only a few hours out, the innkeeper tells Geralt, and headed east. If he hurries, he might catch him.

Geralt rents his room instead. Stands in the place he’d been kneeling a week ago, dizzy with the effort it takes to keep from dropping to the floor again. Jaskier’s scent is thick enough in the air that Geralt can taste him. He is strong enough to stand, knees locked and hands clenched into fists.

Weak enough to press his face into the bed where Jaskier has been sleeping, and let it soothe him.

He stays the night. Sleeps like the dead, surrounded with Jaskier’s scent, haunted by the way it felt to be tucked into his chest. 

There is something lurking in the forests to the south; a manticore, the townsfolk are saying, but they are rarely correct about the beasts they send him chasing in the dark. He’s only ever seen a few manticores, and he doubts he’ll find another so far from the mountains; there is something in the trees, though. Something poisonous, and with teeth. 

There is Jaskier to the east.

Geralt saddles Roach and heads towards the danger he knows.

-

Things are hard.

They get harder. Geralt cannot sleep, and when he does, the slightest noise wakes him. It is like being newly changed all over again; everything oversensitive, hypervigilance making him anxious. He heaves himself upright with a gasp in the middle of the night, or jerks himself back to awareness just as he drifts off. It is not the sort of drifting his instincts are craving. Geralt reaches for his swords too quickly, or not quickly enough. It is Jaskier’s fault.

It is his own.

Geralt is like a recovered addict, accidentally getting another taste and withdrawing all over again. It doesn’t get easier, really, but Geralt adapts. He learns to ignore the shaking in his knees; the way they want to buckle when Geralt is alone. The soreness in the nape of his neck, muscles aching to be kneaded by someone else’s hands.

The urge to drop has almost fallen back into something manageable again, a quiet agony he shoves down and ignores, when he stumbles across Jaskier. Talk of Jaskier, at least. Word spreads fast, and Jaskier is famous in his own right. He is spending time at a tavern a few towns over; there is no work for Geralt there, but he is headed in Jaskier’s direction before he is consciously aware of it, coaxing Roach into a trot as they slip down the trail together.

Geralt cannot pretend he doesn’t know what he wants; he just doesn’t know how to ask for it. Hopes he won’t have to ask at all.

Hopes Jaskier will see him, and know.  _ Anything you need,  _ Jaskier had said. Geralt misses Jaskier’s voice, and Jaskier’s fingers in his hair. Geralt needs a lot of things.

Geralt needs to kneel.

Deliberately searching out Jaskier and coming to find him is different than stumbling across him in the countryside. Seeking him feels weak in a way Geralt isn’t equipped to deal with right now. 

_ Finding  _ him just feels lucky, like a gift Geralt doesn’t deserve.

It takes a few days to get there, and the sun has long since set by the time Geralt arrives, but he isn’t too late. Jaskier is still in town. It’s no grand bastion of urban life— there is one road big enough for a carriage running through the center of the place, with shops and houses spreading out around it. A stable on the outskirts of town, along with the butcher and tanner.

Geralt can hear Jaskier playing as soon as he rides in, the sound of his voice and his lute carrying astonishingly far.

Or maybe Geralt is just used to listening for him.

The music trickles to a stop as he hitches Roach up outside the tavern, running an absent hand across her before he heads towards the doors. There are large windows across the front, the glow of a dozen lamps and candles inside throwing golden pools of light on the ground outside. Geralt spies Jaskier through one of them, and smiles. There is no one around to see, and he can’t stop himself, anyway. Jaskier is flushed; from exertion after performing, or drink, or both. His hair is a little wild, his clothes rumpled. He is smiling, too. Geralt hopes he’s had his fill of playing for the evening, because it will be so easy to fall under. 

Not to mention that he is awake, and aware, and there is no reason for Jaskier to refuse Geralt the rest of the things he’s been wanting; Jaskier’s fingers in his mouth, again.

Jaskier, everywhere.

Then Geralt goes still, and the warm contentment that had already started pooling in him freezes into something thick and viscous in his stomach. Jaskier is sitting in a chair, thighs wide and lute in his hands. His eyes are glittering, the way they do when all is well and he is at ease.

The way they so rarely do around Geralt.

On the floor in front of Jaskier is a submissive on his knees. He’s lithe, and lean, with thick dark hair, the laces of his shirt loosened to show the smooth skin underneath. He’s grinning up at Jaskier, one arm curled around his calf, licking over his teeth.

The picture of a perfect submissive; small, and delicate, beautiful. All things Geralt is not. 

Things he doesn’t need to be, except that Jaskier would look at him like  _ that.  _

It shouldn’t hurt. Not like this. He and Jaskier have never been more than friends, no matter how fiercely he might wish otherwise. They’ve made no promises to one another, or at least none that are being broken right now by a pretty dark haired submissive panting at Jaskier’s feet. 

Geralt could have stayed in bed with Jaskier all those weeks ago. Could have gone to his knees again, and thanked Jaskier in earnest. Geralt could have followed after him instead of crawling into the bed he’d left, getting off with his face pressed into the sheets then chasing tales of manticores and another scant handful of coin. Geralt could have searched him out.

Learned what it was to belong to Jaskier.

Instead, Geralt had waited.

Jaskier’s smile is wide and easy, no trace of irritation or impatience or any of the things Geralt tends to bring out in him. He’s saying something to the submissive, brushing his hair back from his face. Then he’s strumming his lute again, picking out the first notes of a song Geralt doesn’t recognize. 

He does not stay and listen. Geralt unhitches Roach and climbs back into his saddle, leading her out of town and into the woods nearby. When he gets to a clearing that is mostly dry he dismounts, taking off his swords. He lights a fire with the sign of Igni; there is not enough tinder for it to keep long and he does not have the energy to gather more wood. It will be a brief rush of warmth, and it will only leave him colder when it is gone, but Geralt cannot resist the lure of heat. Of comfort, however brief. 

He thinks of Jaskier.

Then he lays down on the ground, and curls into himself. There is a moment of silence— of emptiness, and then Roach is dropping down behind Geralt, laying her heavy head down on top of him. She noses at his shoulder and chest until he reaches up and lays a hand on her face, scratching his fingers through her coarse fur. Roach huffs at him, and he turns so he can pet her with both hands, then wrap his arms part way around her neck.

“It’s okay,” he says. It isn’t.

They doze together for a while, but after an hour so Roach gets to her feet, and Geralt cannot bear to lay there alone. He leads her away from town to the north, where a passing cloth merchant swears he heard talk of a pair of werewolves menacing the nearby village. It won’t be wolves. 

A monster is never what the people paying him believe it to be, but hopefully it is something he can face with a sword in his hand. 

-

Things are hard.

They get harder.

Geralt kills a slew of different corpse eaters after a flu runs rampant in a few townships. Cuts his way through a sabbath of devourers. Rids a swamp of a dozen or so drowned dead. He doesn’t sleep. 

Or he does, and wakes up suffocating. His skin is too tight, and his eyes ache. Sometimes when he is all alone without a weapon in his hands, they shake.

Geralt does find himself a werewolf, eventually. More than one, but he doesn’t realize that until it is almost too late. Turned wolves, unable to control themselves. One rakes their claws down Geralt’s back, splitting him open like a row of daggers. They go down eventually, but only when they’ve almost taken Geralt with them. 

He is tired already, even before losing so much blood. It is two days of hard riding back to town to collect his gold, and even then, he doubts he will be welcomed to stay. It has been weeks since he slept in a bed. Days since he bothered eating. He is in the middle of nowhere; there is no one for miles and miles.

Everything is still so loud it hurts his ears. The air on his skin is enough to make it crawl, and it is hard to breathe. There are a thousand glittering stars above him; when he looks at them, it is dizzying. Geralt drops his swords.

Drops to his knees. Leans down until his forehead is pressed to the ground, both hands wrapped around the back of his neck; like he is a child again, back at the keep and trying to hold himself together. 

He lets out a sound that would be a sob, if there were anyone to hear. 

There is not. Geralt stays there until he stops trembling.

Stays until he starts again. The longing hits him in waves. When the sun comes up he leaves his gold behind, and heads to Kaer Morhen.

It is a ruin, the way he is a ruin, but it is still home.

-

Winter had eased into spring weeks ago. Geralt expects to find the keep empty; there are no young witchers training, anymore, and those on the Path who have returned don’t usually stay after the weather breaks.

Lambert is there, along with Eskel, who takes one look at Geralt and swears.

_ By all the gods, what  _ happened, _ Geralt? _

Geralt couldn’t get the words out even if he’d wanted to say them, so he just shakes his head. He bathes, and eats the food they give him, and closes himself in a room for the night. The bed has seen better days, just like everything and everyone else at the keep, but it is more than he’s had in a long while. 

They keep asking what is wrong, but Geralt still does not answer. It is not something he is ready to speak aloud, especially not to another witcher. He tells them what he’s been hunting, and where, and they find conversation easier when they aren’t trying to figure out what is pulling Geralt apart at the seams. They had been ready to set out for the season, but now are reluctant to leave Geralt alone, Eskel most of all.

_ You don’t have to tell me what’s the matter with you, Geralt, but you also cannot make me go. _

Geralt lies awake after the sun has gone down, listening to the wind howl around Kaer Morhen’s sharp edges. He trains on the old windmills and pendulums until he can barely stand, and runs the trail around the keep. Spars with Lambert until he yields. Hunts game in the woods for them to roast over the hearth in the evenings. 

Geralt sinks to the floor at night, folded into himself with his forehead on the cold stone, palms curled around the nape of his neck. Eskel finds him kneeling. Finds him shaking. 

_ I thought you had outgrown this.  _

It is not something to be outgrown; Geralt knows that, now. Eskel flinches at his own words. Geralt flinches, too.

_ I didn’t mean that. I just meant… you’ve never needed it before. _

Geralt whispers, because he can do nothing else. He knows Eskel will hear him.

_ I have always needed it,  _ he says into the stones.

He is just used to pretending.

_ Geralt please. Tell me how to help you. _

Eskel cannot do it himself. Eskel and Lambert are… Eskel  _ and  _ Lambert, and even if they weren’t, it wouldn’t matter. It is not Eskel who did this— broke Geralt down so easily. Made him ache for something he has been so long without. It is not a simple thing to pull answers from Geralt, but Eskel has known him since before he was a person, before he was a witcher. Before he was anything at all.

Lambert stays at the keep with Geralt, and Eskel mounts his mare, and rides south.

-

There are not a lot of witchers left, nowadays, but Jaskier has met most of them, usually under unpleasant circumstances.

He’s definitely met this one, but he’s never looked quite so intense. Or maybe he has, but Geralt has always been nearby, more intense than anyone else by miles. The witcher storms into the tavern where Jaskier is lingering, waiting for the evening crowd so he has an audience. It is not the witcher’s fault that Jaskier’s stomach drops at the sight of him.

“Hello there, Geralt’s friend. Eskel, wasn’t it?”

Eskel nods, hands on his belt like he’d rather be reaching for a sword.

“It is. Get your things, bard. You’re coming with me.”

Jaskier frowns, cocking his head to the side and furrowing his brows.

“Am I, now? Has something happened? Is Geralt okay?”

Eskel makes a face that Jaskier doesn’t care for at all, and sighs.

Jaskier gets his things, and climbs onto Eskel’s horse.

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me nice things!

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me nice things, friends.


End file.
